


hold me close but keep your distance

by peaceoutofthepieces



Series: Skam Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: SKAM (Netherlands), WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Comfort, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, i still can’t tag, skambingo2020, skamevents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaceoutofthepieces/pseuds/peaceoutofthepieces
Summary: “Hello?” Sander mumbles, sounding muffled and tired, doing his best to cover a yawn. Lucas glances at the clock with furrowed brows.“Did I wake you?” He doubts it, considering it’s the afternoon. Worry stabs at him suddenly, considering why Sander would possibly be in bed at this hour—but it’s him answering Robbe’s phone. It’s also possible his worry has settled in the wrong place.“No, sorry. Just a long night. Do you need Robbe?”“Uhm. Yeah. Jens is sick. As in, aggressively-throwing-up sick. And he won’t let me help, and I don’t know what to do.”There’s a pause on the other side of the line, and then a deep breath. “Robbe’s the same.”~^~Half VDS, half Sobbe sickfic. Lucas takes care of Jens and Sander takes care of Robbe. Both have varying results.
Relationships: Jens Stoffels/Lucas van der Heijden, Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Series: Skam Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729147
Comments: 2
Kudos: 106





	hold me close but keep your distance

**Author's Note:**

> The start of my fics for the Skam bingo on tumblr! I’m late posting it here but I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @peaceoutofthepieces

Lucas calls Robbe in a panic, but it isn’t Robbe who answers. 

“Hello?” Sander mumbles, sounding muffled and tired, doing his best to cover a yawn. Lucas glances at the clock with furrowed brows. 

“Did I wake you?” He doubts it, considering it’s the afternoon. Worry stabs at him suddenly, considering why Sander would possibly be in bed at this hour—but it’s him answering Robbe’s phone. It’s also possible his worry has settled in the wrong place. 

“No, sorry. Just a long night. Do you need Robbe?”

“Uhm. Yeah. Jens is sick. As in, aggressively-throwing-up sick. And he won’t let me help, and I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause on the other side of the line, and then a deep breath. “Robbe’s the same.”

Lucas blinks. “What? Seriously?”

“Seriously. That’s their ‘Greasy Friday’ for them,” he sighs. 

“You think they got food poisoning, or something?”

“Probably. I’m just hoping it won’t last long. I feel out of my depth.”

Lucas smiles. “I’m sure Robbe’s just happy to have you there. Jens, on the other hand…”

“Always wants you there,” Sander reminds him gently. “He’s probably just a grumpy sick.”

“He just keeps saying he’s fine and he doesn’t need me to babysit him.”

“Maybe he’s worried he’s contagious?”

Lucas pauses. Jens had turned away from his kiss, had only then pulled the covers up over his head and grumbled at Lucas to go away. It does make more sense, he supposes. Plus, he’s pretty grumpy when he’s sick, himself. He needs to be gentle in his approach. 

And if that doesn’t work, maybe apply some tough love. But he isn’t going anywhere. 

“Maybe,” he agrees. “Is Robbe bitchy when he’s throwing up too?”

Sander huffs. “Robbe’s just clingy. He’s too sweet to bitch at me. He just keeps saying he’s okay.” 

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Sander.” He waits, hears another sigh, and then a door bangs down the hall. There’s a patter of footsteps and then the sound of retching. Lucas looks towards the noise and grimaces. He can’t imagine any of that is pleasant. He can’t imagine not wanting Jens to comfort him, if their positions were reversed. He can, however, imagine pushing him away for his own safety. And he can imagine Jens not doing much more than rolling his eyes and ignoring all his protests. 

Jens wouldn’t abandon him, and Jens wouldn’t want to be abandoned. 

He’s just an idiot. 

“Is that Jens?” Sander questions. Lucas can hear his wince. 

“Sadly, it is, yeah. I better go. Thanks. Have fun with your one.”

Sander hums. “Good luck with yours.”

Lucas finds Jens curled around the toilet. He has one hand braced on the wall and the other hung over the edge of the bath, head tipped over the bowl as he coughs. At least the vomiting part seems to be over, this time. Lucas can go without ever seeing that again. 

He crouches down next to Jens and pets a hand through his hair. “Did you drink the glass of water I left you?” 

Jens gives a tiny nod, coughing once more before slumping back against the bath. Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so miserable. Eye bags, pasty skin, cracked lips, sure. But it’s the way his eyes have dimmed, the way he’s constantly curled in on himself, the way his face pinches in controlled pain, every time he grabs at his stomach in an attempt to hide the cramps. He looks absolutely dreadful as he collects his breath and meets Lucas’s gaze through his lashes. “I thought you’d left,” he mumbles.

“Just to call Robbe. Well, Sander. Robbe’s sick too.” Jens blinks at him. “Sander suggested food poisoning.” Jens curls an arm around his stomach and winces in response. 

“You should go home. I’ll be fine.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you seem great. Are you done throwing up?” Jens hums. “Okay. Come on.” He ignores Jens’s protests of ‘I’m _fine_ ’ and slides an arm around his waist, offering support as he gets to his feet. Jens leans on him and then immediately tries to shift his weight, leaving Lucas to catch him before he falls. He keeps his hands on the other boy’s waist until he stills. “Good?” When Jens nods, he lets him step away, but he keeps a hand at his back until they make it back to the bedroom, then watches him bury himself back under the covers. 

He looks at him for a moment, just in case, then settles in his desk chair when he’s only met with silence. He crosses his ankles and pulls up the search on his phone. 

“Main food poisoning symptoms,” he says. Jens peeks out to look at him. “Nausea, yeah, vomiting, definitely, dia—“ he pauses. Looks at Jens. Raises his brows. Jens pulls the duvet back over his head and he grimaces. He could’ve gone without knowing that information. “Other symptoms….stomach cramps, abdominal pain, high temperature, muscle pain? Is this all sounding right?” Jens grunts. Lucas takes it as a yes. “And chills. Dehydration is the main risk. Okay. That’s manageable.” Jens’s groan suggests he disagrees. 

Lucas leaves his phone on the desk and swivels around, turning himself with his feet. He only stops when the lump on the bed shifts, Jens flipping onto his other side with hitched breaths and another muffled groan. 

Lucas bites his lip. “You feel sick again?”

It takes a moment for Jens to mumble a response. “No.”

“Okay. That’s good.” He doesn’t like that Jens is turned away from him now. He doesn’t like that he’s so far away. He doesn’t care if Jens punches him. He gets up and rounds the bed to the empty side, settling down on top of the covers with his hands under his cheek, trying not to reach out. Jens stares at him in silent protest. Lucas wriggles in place and tries not to move closer. “Hi,” he says quietly.

Jens huffs. Lucas is happy to note he’s very obviously fighting off a smile. “Hi.”

“Are you gonna punch me if I touch you?”

“I probably should. But I don’t think I can. When I’m feeling better, though, I’ll remember and then, definitely.”

“Better not, then, hm?”

Jens smiles wryly. “Better not.”

Lucas looks at him, and his pasty face and his eyebags and his cracked lips. He curls his fingers in the pillow and tries very hard. Jens rubs his face against the pillow and a lock of hair falls against his forehead. Lucas reaches out and pushes it back, then keeps his hand there. 

“You’re an idiot,” Jens tells him, but he leans into his touch, closes his eyes as Lucas scratches over his scalp. 

Lucas smiles. “I’m your idiot.” Jens’s huff has more laughter in it, this time. Lucas’s smile widens. He shifts a little closer. Subtly. Doesn’t even falter in petting Jens’s hair. 

Still, Jens’s eyes flutter open and he grumbles a warning, “Luc.” Lucas hums. “I won’t let you get sick.”

“Well if I do, you can just pay back all this care.”

“Why would I do that if you were just stupid enough not to listen to me?”

“Because you love me,” Lucas says simply. Easily. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It is. “Like I love you. That’s why you can whine all you want, but you’re gonna have trouble kicking me out.”

“You’re _a lot_ of trouble, you know that?” Lucas hums, smiling. Jens turns his face into the pillow. “I should kick you out of the bed.”

“Go for it. I’ll just come back up here.” He sneaks in to press a kiss to Jens’s forehead, laughing at his protest. He traces his fingers over his cheek as he sinks into the pillow again, then pulls his hand away. All he wants to do is provide all the comfort he can offer. It seems, if Jens gets his way, that that will simply be staring at him and forcing water into him. It’s not a bad thing. It just doesn’t feel like enough. “Is there anything I can do?”

Jens gives a tiny shrug just before a shiver wracks through him. He lets out another groan, shivers again, and buries his face in his pillow. 

“That’ll be the chills,” Lucas says, smiling sympathetically. He tucks the duvet up around Jens’s neck, pulling it closed over his chest and smoothing a hand down his back. He keeps his hand on his side as he asks, “Do you want me to get you another blanket?” Jens hesitates, then nods. Lucas pats his side and then gets up to move to the wardrobe, digging out a fluffy red blanket. He spreads it over the bed, tucking it around Jens’s shoulders and making sure it isn’t tickling his face. He can’t resist brushing his knuckles over Jens’s cheek in the process. “I’m gonna get some more water for you, too. You think you’ll manage to survive until I’m back?”

Jens makes a muffled sound that Lucas takes as a yes. He pats the part of the Jens-lump that he assumes is his legs on his way out and pauses to down a glass of water himself once he’s in the kitchen. After a moment's hesitation, he checks the cupboards and flicks on the kettle. Maybe it’s a cliche, but soup will hopefully be easy to keep down. 

He takes the promised water back to his boyfriend, who’s now rolled on to his other side and curled up even tighter. Lucas crouches down next to the bed and rests his hand on top of Jens’s where it’s clutching the covers. Jens grabs his fingers, tangling them in his own clammy ones. Lucas presses a hand to his forehead, which thankfully doesn’t feel as hot as it had this morning. “I’m making you some soup. You need to try to get something to stay down for a while.”

“You think soup’s gonna work?” Jens doesn’t sound very sure. 

“It’s the general sick food. And easy and quick to make. Will you at least try some for me?”

Jens rolls his eyes. His smile barely peeks out from under the covers. “For you,” he agrees. 

Lucas squeezes his hand, smiles softly, and makes his way back to the kitchen. It barely takes him five minutes to make the soup, and he waits until Jens props himself up against the pillows to hand it to him carefully. He perches on the edge of the bed by his feet and watches him take a few spoonfuls, slow and slightly shaky. “Do you need me to feed you?” he asks, half-teasing, half-serious. Jens glowers at him and blows on another spoonful. 

It takes him almost half an hour, but he finishes the small bowl and drinks half of his glass of water. He’s then back to glowering at Lucas when he has to drag himself out of bed to pee. Lucas just tells him, “You’ll be _thanking_ me when you recover without having died from dehydration.”

When he’s settled again and doesn’t seem too close to throwing up, Lucas collects his laptop from his desk and joins him on the bed again. “Anything you’ve been wanting to watch on Netflix?”

“Luc,” Jens sighs. “You’re not lying down with me to watch a film. Come on, you’re just asking to get sick.”

Lucas sighs back and does his best not to glare at him. He is sick, after all. Instead, he takes one of the pillows from his side and sets it between them as a barrier. It annoys him instantly, that Jens’s face is now blocked from his view, and he leans up on his elbow to peer over at him. “Okay. Forcefield. Happy now?”

“No,” Jens smiles. “But I’ll take it.”

Lucas grins, settling back down with his head against his side of their ‘forcefield’. He feels the pressure as Jens does the same, and clicks on the first thing in Jens’s list. His body is still curled towards Lucas’s side, and a tremor runs through it occasionally, followed by the rustling of the blanket. Lucas drops his hand, palm up, in the middle of the bed. After a moment, Jens’s hand is covering his and he’s slotting their fingers together. Lucas is a little glad of their pillow barrier, then, knowing it’s the only thing preventing Jens teasing him for his smile. 

He doesn’t think to check, but Jens’s expression is the same on the other side. 

~^~

Robbe aches all over, but his stomach is in _shreds_. The familiar feel of his bed around him is somewhat comforting, but outside of that...he feels like death. He feels like dying. All he can do is curl in on himself and press his face into the pillow and try to ignore it. He wishes he was still asleep. It was a blessedly painless half hour. 

Once he can register anything beyond the disappointment, he notices that the other side of his bed is empty. On further inspection, he realises that the whole room is. 

“Sander,” he mumbles, pointlessly, his voice barely more than a whisper. A shiver wracks through him, and he tugs the duvet closer to his body, hand pressed under his chin. He feels awful enough without having to be _abandoned_ by his boyfriend too. He groans and turns his head away from the pillow, just enough to call out again, but he doesn’t have to. In the same instant, Sander is in the doorway, bringing Robbe’s phone away from his ear and hanging up. Robbe relaxes again and smiles, sneaking his arm out of the covers to make a grabby hand at the blonde. Sander gives him an amused look and comes close enough to clasp his hand, letting Robbe give a few futile tugs with a laugh before finally dropping down beside him. 

He sits against the headboard and lets Robbe curl an arm around his leg and press his face to his thigh. Sander huffs, but his hand begins combing through Robbe’s hair. “Who were you talking to?” Robbe questions. 

“Lucas. Jens is sick, too.”

Robbe looks up at him. “Really?” Sander hums. “How’s Luc doing with that?”

Sander shrugs. “The best he can, I imagine. I don’t think Jens is proving to be an easy patient.”

Robbe’s brow furrows. “I can’t imagine Jens as the whiny type.”

“Mm, I think that’s the problem. He’s emptying his guts while saying he’s fine instead. Told Lucas to go home.” He smiles down at Robbe. “You’re the two opposite extremes.”

Robbe makes a noise of protest (that most definitely isn’t a whine). “I’m not whiny.” Sander laughs. “I’m not! Take it back. Or you can leave, too. Go be lonely and kicked out with Lucas.”

Sander pokes his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re cute when you’re clingy.”

Robbe narrows his eyes. Sander tugs his hair lightly then rubs a hand over his shoulder. Robbe forgets what they were talking about as his eyes slip shut and he shifts against Sander until he can lie on the boy’s stomach. It’s maybe a little pathetic, but he always feels better with Sander here. The ache in all of his muscles and the cramps in his stomach don’t disappear, but they dull a little. They’re easier to ignore. Sander becomes the focal point when he’s near. That’s all Robbe needs. 

Except, maybe, to use the bathroom again. 

He purses his lips and climbs off the bed quickly, making his way to the door with a muttered, “Bathroom,” over his shoulder. 

“Do you need me?” Sander calls after him. 

“ _No!_ ” God, no. Sander does not need to know anything about this. Ever. And he definitely does not need to be witness to it. _Robbe_ doesn’t even want to be present for this. He thinks, maybe, it’d be fine, if it eased some of the pain in his stomach, if it gave him a reprieve from all the aches and the chills and the discomfort, but it isn’t quite working like that. It’s just making him feel gross. 

And taking him away from Sander. 

When he finally does make it back to the bedroom, however, Sander is gone. Again. Robbe’s chest clenches and he groans. He collects the duvet from the bed, dragging it around his shoulders, and then hobbles to the kitchen, hunched and shivering. Sander is at the counter, stirring something in a pot that smells suspiciously like soup. Robbe narrows his eyes at the sheepish smile Sander gives him. “Lucas said that Jens was keeping it down. You haven’t eaten anything at all yet.”

“So you’re cooking something other than croques?”

“You’re hardly a master-chef yourself,” Sander says, dryly teasing. Robbe sticks his tongue out at him and has to swallow down another bout of nausea. Sander seems to notice the apprehension on his face, because he abandons his cooking for a moment to move towards Robbe and take his face in his hands. “Hey. You need to eat something. Even if you can’t keep it down, it’ll be worse on your stomach if you have nothing to throw up. You’re not going to feel any better with no food in you.”

Robbe’s expression doesn’t smooth out of its distress, but he relaxes slightly when Sander pulls him close and plants a kiss on his forehead. “Please have some,” Sander whispers, his wide-eyed pleading look dangerously crumbling Robbe’s resolve. “For me.” 

He punctuates his request with a tiny peck to Robbe’s lips that has Robbe swaying after him, even as he pulls away with a self-satisfied smirk. Robbe thinks of all the times he’d employed the same tactic himself, working to get Sander to eat with coaxing smiles and soft words when he could barely get out of bed during an episode. He’s used to the feeling of worry clawing at his stomach, of irrationally fearing Sander would fade away before his eyes. Robbe closes his eyes in defeat and takes a seat at the table, allowing his gaze to rest on his boyfriend as he waits. Sander goes back to stirring, cautiously bringing the spoon to his lips and taking a sip. Robbe can’t make out his reaction, but it mustn’t be too bad. It’s only a minute before Sander is setting the bowl in front of him and Robbe is giving it another dubious look. His stomach rolls. 

In seconds there’s a spoon at his lips, held up by Sander, his gaze watchful and questioning. Robbe’s lips pull up in a tiny smile, and he reluctantly lets Sander feed him. 

Within minutes, he’s back in the bathroom with his head over the toilet. Sander stays at his side, rubbing his back and grimacing apologetically. “I blame Lucas,” he mumbles. Robbe snorts a laugh before continuing to empty his stomach. 

He doesn’t want to lie in bed anymore, not when it isn’t for the usual reasons. Not when he’s doing his best to avoid kissing Sander and feeling as pathetically ill as he is. He comes to the conclusion that if he’s curled up on the couch instead, head safely pillowed on Sander’s lap, he can pretend they’re simply having a lazy day in the flat and his symptoms will magically disappear. 

It doesn’t turn out exactly like that, but it’s nice to lie with Sander’s hand in his hair and the vague murmur of the TV in the background. Sander only disturbs him to use the bathroom or refill his water, and once to make himself lunch, that Robbe refuses to eat any of. 

Right now Sander’s here, his hand resting on the side of Robbe’s neck, thumb brushing over his jaw absentmindedly. Robbe is half asleep, in a comfortable doze, when he notices the occasional hitch in Sander’s breathing, the slight twitch of his fingers. There’s a stab of pain in Robbe’s stomach that has nothing to do with the food poisoning. He twists himself around in Sander’s lap, smiling at the way Sander instinctually holds the cushion under his head in place. Robbe settles on his back, resting his feet over the arm of the couch, and smiles up at Sander. Sander smiles back down at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“You okay?” Robbe asks, curious but hesitant. It’s on the rarest of occasions that Sander will answer this question with the full truth—rare, even, for him to answer at all. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Sander smiles, and this is exactly the avoidance Robbe was expecting. He picks up the hand Sander now has resting on his chest and tangles his fingers with the blonde’s. Instead of asking again, he stares up at Sander and waits. Sander’s smile fades slowly as he sighs. “I feel like I’m not doing enough.”

Robbe furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

Sander diverts his gaze and licks his lips, eyes wandering around the room before finally dropping back down to Robbe. “I want to take care of you like you always take care of me, and I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I don’t know if I’m doing enough.”

_Of course_ , Robbe thinks. He should’ve known. He did know, in a way. It doesn’t hurt any less to hear. He pushes himself up and Sander lifts him to sit next to him instead, keeping his legs thrown over the blonde’s lap. Robbe takes Sander’s chin in his fingers and turns his head towards him. “Sander. You’re doing perfect. You can’t make me not-sick. You’re here. That’s enough.”

Sander sighs again and drops his forehead against Robbe’s, closing his eyes as Robbe bumps their noses together. “I just hate that I can’t do anything to make me feel better.”

“You’re here,” Robbe repeats in a whisper. “That always makes me feel better. It’s nothing less than what I do for you. Okay?”

It’s true. Robbe understands all of Sander’s current feelings all too well, and that utter helplessness is always the one to hit hardest. To Robbe, there’s no greater pain than witnessing Sander’s, than knowing that he’s hurting and Robbe can never fully take that hurt away. He knows that it must be worse for Sander, to have their positions reversed. Sander’s feelings of inadequacy and the ridiculous ideas he has of being a burden, of not being good enough or as deserving of their happiness, of being _toxic_ , are all ridiculous to Robbe but deeply ingrained in the blonde’s psyche. Robbe can never get Sander to believe him when he says he feels just as insecure, that he doesn’t understand how someone as talented and brave and beautiful as Sander loves _him_. Sander just looks at him like he’s insane, like Robbe is the most perfect thing he’s ever seen, and he melts into Sander’s kisses and hopes Sander feels that same level of love reciprocated in Robbe’s touch. 

It’s what he tries to convey now, after Sander’s breathed, “Okay,” as he presses his lips to Sander’s in a gentle kiss. 

“Okay,” Robbe agrees, smiling, as Sander brushes his hair off his forehead and leaves a kiss in its wake. This time he curls up in Sander’s arms, cradled completely in his lap. With his ear pressed to Sander’s chest, he lets the now steady heartbeat soothe him as Sander feeds him a few crackers. This time he manages to keep them down with a glass of water to ease the way. He doesn’t miss Sander’s pleased smile or the self-satisfied edge to it. 

Robbe lets him be happy with himself and feels a little less sick at the sight of his joy. The aches and chills don’t seem as bad with Sander there to keep him warm.


End file.
